the writergirl

Dear Reader,

I am the eldest daughter. The eldest daughter of an immigrant family. Since young I was expected to care for my siblings, and to give more simply because it’s my “responsibility” to. I became the third parent, the second mother, and it has been ingrained me since then. To care for others, sometimes even when I cannot care for myself.

Hyper-independence was never a term I identified with until a realisation the night before about what I’d been doing for most of my life; how I’d been handling my wounds, my traumas, and my fears. I tend to retreat into myself and nurse the pain on my own, treating it with a gentleness and care that only I can give because I am the only person I trusted to care for it right.

And yet, even in those clarion moments where I am certain only I can help myself, I have often wished that I didn’t have to do it alone. There is a sentence in one of my poems that I find myself returning to time and time again: “fighting for my life is the loneliest thing I have ever done”. I did not believe myself to be lonely. I did not care at all about that. I only cared about survival, about platonic love, about whether or not I would live for however long of a natural life I actually had. And yet—

Recently, I found myself reaching out to an acquaintance for advice, my close friend’s partner. He was kind enough to hear me out, and kinder still for really listening to what I had to say. There was no judgement, no guilt, as for the first time in my life I admitted what I tried to ignore for so long: that I was so very lonely.

He reminded me to hold onto hope and keep moving forward. I told him the truth: that I have been fighting for over a decade, binding my wounds and handling my traumas alone. When will I finally have someone willing to take over some of the work? When can I finally lay down my weapons for rest? I want to be seen; I want to be treated with the patience I am owed but was never given. He reminded me it will get better. I told him I was so very tired.

I will never forget the ache in my chest and the hollow pit in my stomach when I sent him these words: “I have so many friends! I have a good family, lovely cats, a dream and a goal to reach for! I am so very loved! But god, I’m so lonely!“

It was less like being struck by lightning and more like coming out of a dream, finally awake and aware of what I’d been denying my whole life. I suspect I’ve always known it, just looked for reasons to pretend it wasn’t true.

That night, I went to sleep with a heavy heart. I woke up somewhat numb, and now I have loneliness settled in me like a stone, right beside anger. I wish I could say I had a solution for this. Therapy? Time? Another five years of self-isolation only to emerge out of it believing everyone I love actually hates me? I am unfortunately not the same person I was five years ago. I am also, regrettably, fully aware that I am capable of change.

I’d like to believe that one day, this loneliness will not be so heavy. Perhaps I’ll learn how to set boundaries, perhaps I will fall in love. Either way, I must keep moving forward. I am stubborn, as stubborn as hope.

Love,

the writergirl